Читать книгу The House of the Schemers - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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All the mystery of the dreadful old house was forgotten for the moment. The look of grief and unhappiness in the eyes of Ailsa was not lost upon the intruder. He gave one searching glance upwards, and then his own gaze fell. There was a suggestion of shame about him; he had lost his insolent audacity.

Ailsa's heart was beating almost to suffocation. She had had a very trying day, and she had passed a still more trying evening. Her courage had been put to a high test, and it had not failed her. But now that help was at hand, womanlike, she felt as if she were going to break down altogether. But there was the dreadful suggestion of Archibald Colville to sustain her.

What did he mean by calling this shabby and disreputable intruder by the name of Ronald Braybrooke! That was the name of Ailsa's lover—the manly, central figure of her one romance. Ronald had been tall and strong and brave—a cavalier sans peur et sans reproche. It seemed almost ridiculous to connect him with the shuffling figure hanging back there beyond the light of the lamps.

Archibald Colville turned to Ailsa and motioned her away. He intimated pretty plainly that this was no place for a young girl. But Ailsa did not move. There was more than one suspicion uppermost in her mind. Why was Colville here at this moment, when he had actually telegraphed old Thomas to meet him in Birmingham? And why did he come home to his own house like a thief in the night?

"Go away," he said. "Go away and leave me to settle with this gentleman. This is no place for you. Don't be afraid for me. I assure you that the fellow is not likely to do me a mischief."

The man keeping out of the shadow of the lamps laughed. He seemed to be more or less sure of the ground on which he stood.

"There is some mistake here," Ailsa said, in a voice that was indifferently steady. "My dear guardian, why do you speak of this man as Ronald Braybrooke?"

"Because that is his name," Colville said, hoarsely. "Otherwise he would not be here at all. It is true that my personal knowledge of Mr. Braybrooke is not great. I have not seen him for some years, but we have frequently corresponded. It seems to me——"

"That there is some dreadful mistake here," Ailsa interrupted. "I knew Ronald Braybrooke intimately. Up to four years ago, when my parents died, I saw him every day. I was only sixteen then, and he was quite a man, but I liked him; we were great friends. Liked him! Nay, I loved him, though no word of love ever escaped my lips. I regarded him as a model of all that a man should be. And when you call that man Ronald Braybrooke, why, my heart laughs the suggestion to scorn."

The deep contempt in the girl's young voice seemed to disturb the intruder. The sullen red of his face deepened, but he kept his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Ronald Braybrooke is dead," he said, sulkily. "It may be a shock to the young lady's feelings, but as the truth is told there can be no good done by hiding it. I won't go so far as to say that Ronald Braybrooke was a friend of mine; as a matter of fact I have been his greatest curse. But circumstances over which neither of us had any control threw us much together. I tell you he is dead, I was present at his funeral or what passed for it. He was washed off a smack and died at sea. I saw it done. And I can prove the whole thing if you give me time——"

"I am quite sure that this man speaks the truth," Ailsa faltered.

A thin sneer curled Archibald Colville's lips. He shook his head doubtfully.

"I am not convinced," he said. "With so much mystery in the air, I shall want all the proof you can give."

"I am sick and tired of mystery," Ailsa cried passionately. "The house reeks of it, the unlucky No. 13 stifles me. You, my guardian, tell me that you could not possibly return till the morrow, and yet you come into your own house like a thief in the night. You were surprised to see me here—your face had a look of guilty fear on it. And then old Susan meets with an accident. In her delirium she discloses certain things. On the top of it I find this man, this derelict of humanity, who tells me that the only one I ever cared for is dead. Why do you come back like this, guardian? why is this man here? What does he seek? It is not as if he were a stranger—he knows the house as well as I do. What does it mean?"

Colville shook his head slowly like one who relinquishes a difficult position. But his face grew hard again as he turned to the intruder.

"I can't explain," he said. "It is too long and pitiful a story. And as to this man, I do not know what to think. I could have sworn—but then he asserts that he is prepared to prove what he says. Let me tell you something concerning the fortunes of Ronald Braybrooke. Never mind how, but he suddenly became possessed of a large fortune. Braybrooke was poor and ambitious, and would have given much for the money to carry out his designs. And if he were alive now he would be the master of £100,000. On business connected with this money I have been away. But I had to return to-night secretly. Do you hear what I say, fellow? Ronald Braybrooke has become entitled to £100,000. If he likes to come forward and claim it, the money is his to-morrow."

Something in the tone of the speech seemed to madden the intruder. He lifted a pair of eyes that glowed like living coals to Colville. His hands were clenched so tightly that Ailsa could see how the knuckles stood out like white seams on his brown hands. He trembled as if in the grip of some great physical pain. But all the same he kept his face in the shadow, half hidden as it was by the plaster on his cheeks.

Ailsa held her breath. Not for a moment had she credited anything that Colville had said; indeed, it seemed to her that he was acting a part. In her heart of hearts the girl felt that this human derelict could in no way be connected with her own Ronald Braybrooke. She recalled his face and form vividly to her mind now. Oh no, it could not be as Colville had said.

And yet here was Archibald Colville putting him to the test. If that crouching figure really was Ronald Braybrooke, then he had fallen very low indeed. He looked as if latterly he had lacked the bare necessaries of life. And here was Colville offering him—provided he was Braybrooke—a handsome fortune. It was enough to tempt even the noblest and most honourable of men!

"What nonsense all this is," Ailsa cried. "Do you think that I should fail to recognise Ronald Braybrooke, even if he were so utterly changed as—I mean in any circumstances? I should recognise him anywhere. And yet you, who say that you have not seen him for many years, pit your opinion against mine!"

"You don't know what you are talking about," Colville said, roughly. "I have seen men so changed in a few years that their own mothers did not know them. I know a case in which a father refused to recognise his own daughter. I merely repeat what I said before: Ronald Braybrooke is not dead, and this man knows it. For some purpose of his own he is acting a part. Produce Ronald Braybrooke, and let him come forward and claim the fortune of £100,000."

"Braybrooke is very fortunate," the stranger said. "If he had only known that a few days ago he would never have been drowned in the North Sea. And as to his ambitions, you are perfectly correct. This money would have been a god-send to him. But he lies at the bottom of the German Ocean, and there is an end of him."

"Strange," Colville muttered in a sarcastic tone. "Very strange indeed! Still stranger that a nameless vagabond like you should come and give us this information this night of all nights. Stranger still that you should be here at all, strangest of all that you should be familiar with my house. Braybrooke was—as a boy."

"And Braybrooke might have told me things," the intruder said, defiantly. "Yes, you have summed up my character quite correctly. I am a nameless vagabond, who was once a gentleman. It matters little that I have come so low as this—I who used to pride myself upon my honour and integrity. Call me John Stern, for want of a better name, and hand me over to the police if you like. But why I am here and what my business is, I shall not say if I hang for it."

There was a curiously dry smile on Colville's lips as he listened. It was quite plain that he did not believe a word that Stern was saying. "You had better come down to my room and talk the matter over," he said. "There are certain circumstances that make it desirable to keep the police in ignorance of what has taken place here to-night. Otherwise I should have given you into custody without the slightest hesitation. I want to be convinced that Ronald Braybrooke is really dead. There is a way—but stop. I have another idea. Write the facts shortly, and on a sheet of notepaper, and sign them. Have you any paper and pen here. Ailsa?"

Stern gave a short quick laugh that sounded like derision. If there was a trap here he saw it quite plainly. Ailsa shook her head—there was nothing of the kind in the studio.

"I will fetch everything necessary from my room," muttered Colville. "I don't think our friend is likely to run away or do any harm to you, Ailsa."

Stern laughed in his quick, derisive way. Something seemed to amuse him scornfully.

"I am not going to run away," he said between his teeth, "and I am not in the least likely to do any harm to the young lady. Besides she was disposed to be fond of a man whom I liked. A man who might have done better had he had a better chance. Get your writing paper, old fox."

Colville slipped out of the room quietly. There was a painful silence for a moment.

"Are you concealing something from me?" Ailsa asked. "The thing is so amazing that I have not recovered from my surprise yet. It is amazing that I should have told you, told anybody, that I cared for Ronald Braybrooke. But he was so handsome, and so noble; he was the only young man I ever knew in my quiet vicarage home. It was only a girlish dream, but when I knew he was dead, I felt it was more than a dream. And I told you because I have a curious fancy that you were once a good man, and that all good feelings are not yet dead in you. Did you care for Ronald?"

"I was at once his greatest friend and his greatest enemy. And because my good feelings are not yet dead, and because the sound of your voice and your simple faith have brought back many things to me long forgotten, I am making a tremendous sacrifice. If you only knew the sacrifice I am making to-night you would pity me and be sorry for me. I want you to believe this as I never wanted anybody to believe anything in the world before."

There was a ring of passionate sincerity in the speaker's voice that touched Ailsa.

"I believe you," she said, with a sudden impulse. "Do you know you have almost caught poor Ronald's trick of voice. If I may inquire the nature of the sacrifice——"

"No. I do not want to speak curtly, but I cannot give you the slightest indication of it. That would spoil everything. Some day, perhaps, I may tell you more fully. I have been a bad man, but I am not going to be a bad man in future. And you are responsible for the change. But I was almost forgetting. You guess or you overheard something of my errand. I implore you to say nothing whatever about it to your guardian. There are reasons why—pressing reasons why——"

Stern's voice died in a murmur as Colville's shuffling feet were heard again. He had an alert and business air as he returned to the room, and the cynical, dry smile was still on his lips. He cleared a table of a mass of artistic litter, and placed pen and ink and notepaper thereon. Then he drew a chair up to the table.

"What I want you to do is simple," he explained. "Please write the bald facts of Ronald Braybrooke's death on half a sheet of notepaper and sign it. My ward shall witness the document. And after that is done I will not seek to detain you. A little more light——"

"Not on my account," Stern said, hastily. "Since my accident my eyes are not as they were, and any strong light affects them. All you want, I suppose, is the name of the smack and the owner, the date of the catastrophe, and just how it happened?"

Colville nodded in the same dry way. He looked like some criminal lawyer who has just seen his witness with his head in the trap. But the smile faded and the irritation deepened on his face as Stern took up the pen in his left hand.

"Why do you do that?" he asked sharply. "You are not necessarily left-handed. I could see that by the way you arranged the paper on the table."

"Which proves nothing," Stern said, coolly. "My right hand has suffered also, so that for the present I am compelled to use my left. Won't you sit down—it is rather a long process."

Colville sat down, biting his thin lips. It was a tedious process, and Stern crumpled up one sheet of paper after ten minutes and thrust it in his pocket. The next effort was more successful, and the sheet was handed to Colville.

"Yes, it seems all right," he said, speaking with the air of one who disguises his vexation. "I don't think I need detain you any longer. Perhaps you had better append your address, and then my ward may sign it. Thanks."

With a gesture Stern motioned Colville to the door. As the latter passed out of the studio Stern took the crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it to Ailsa. She covered it with her hand very quickly. She closed the door on the others, then she opened the paper.

"I had to trick the old man," it said. "There was no time to tell you. You have been very good to me to-night, and you will never regret it. Be discreet and silent; never let Mr. Colville know why I came and what I was looking for behind the panels of your studio. That must be the secret between us. I have a feeling that we shall meet again. And until we do so have no curiosity as to what was wrong with old Susan to-night. Never let her know that you suspected or knew anything. And God bless you for a good and true woman, who has come near to saving a lost soul to-night."

Ailsa read the carefully-disguised hand twice thoughtfully, then she tore the note in shreds and dropped them one by one into the fireless grate.